


Let Me Go

by lenfantduvendredi (orphan_account)



Series: Pages Upon Pages [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Exile, Other, Song Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:23:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lenfantduvendredi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you'll say something you don't mean, and you try to apologize, and it's taken well. Stiles doesn't have that liberty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Go

  
__**Let Me Go** _ _

* * *

Stiles sits in his Jeep, and sobs.

Not the quiet ones where you try to hide them.

The tears clouded his eyes so much that he forced himself to stop driving and then, Stiles broke. He hadn’t cried this hard since his mother died, body heaving painfully and feeling like if he sobbed any harder, he’d break into tiny pieces.

He and Derek had gotten into fights before, but nothing like this.

Derek had pushed him away, shoved him verbally and told him that if he stayed, Derek would kill him first if a hunter or monster didn’t beat him to it. The other things uttered had been so horrible, thinking about them brought another wave of sobs, and with them sickness that had Stiles scrambling to get the driver’s side door open before promptly losing the contents of his stomach.

Strike that. Stiles hasn’t cried this hard since he was 6 and fell off his bike. He’d skinned his knees, hands, and chin. Only now, he was eighteen years old and he didn’t have his mother to bandage him up and kiss his hurts better.

He hyperventilates, hiccupping and trying to breathe as his body refuses to let him stop sobbing. It’s not the first time, but at least he isn’t panicking. He can force himself to drive home like this. He has to, because he’s too close to the Hale property for comfort, and he can’t call anyone.

Stiles Stilinski is no longer a part of the pack, and he’ll honor that, because he has to, because he’d never make any of the pups side against their Alpha.

His dad’s cruiser isn’t in the driveway when he finally gets home, so Stiles parks and goes into his childhood home. It’s then that Stiles really realizes the implication of the Alpha’s words: He can’t come back. He has to leave this, everything, behind.

The panic sets in, until Stiles is giggling hysterically, crumpled on the floor and rocking back and forth.  His head is in his hands, slick with the salinity of his tears. His shoulders shake as he tries to breathe through the overwhelming feeling of drowning.

He’s not sure how long he sits, but he’s dimly aware of his dad’s hands lifting him from under his arms and half-leading, half-carrying him up the stairs and getting him into bed.

“I get that college is a big step, Stiles,” his dad says gently, crouched beside him. “And it’s not going to be easy, but it’s going to be okay, I promise you. We’ll be okay.”

No we won’t, Dad, Stiles wants to say. The panic took too much out of him, and all he can do is nod in a very childlike manner. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want his dad to leave him, wants to curl into his chest the way that he used to on the really bad nights after his mom died, and all they had was each other. Stiles doesn’t even have the energy for that.

When he wakes up, the sunlight is directly in his face. His phone has 30 missed calls and 25 messages, all from the pack. He doesn’t even bother to check his voicemail messages.

His dad is already at work for the day, so Stiles settles for a couple toaster strudels. Which only turns into the entire box, but panic attacks take up energy and lots of carbohydrates. Stiles takes his medicines, and pulls out a set of clothes. Layers, because he feels wrong in his own skin, and things that his parents bought. He purposefully avoids pack gifts today, because he knows that he won’t be able to handle it, and he can’t afford to lose hours to a panic-induced blackout.

Mentally, fingers twitching slightly from the Adderall in his system, Stiles makes a list of the things that he needs to do. His acceptance letter needs to be sent, next-day-delivery, and he needs to make sure that he’s got everything in order, and he needs to avoid the pack at all costs.

On his way out of the house, keys and phone in hand, he decides then to ditch his phone and get a new number. He’d only give it to his dad.

He drives the long, roundabout ways to get to where he needs to go, ignoring how his phone vibrates from the floorboards. It’s unlike him to get annoyed, but finally, he picks up the infernal device and rips the battery out.

New plan of attack. Phone disposal first, everything else afterwards.

He pays for his phone out of pocket so as not to charge anything to the account, texting his dad his new number and explaining that Stiles lost his phone. Really, he’d crushed it, but his dad didn’t need to know all of the nitty gritty details.

The post office was quiet, which wasn’t all that shocking. It made it easy for Stiles to carefully and neatly copy addresses and make sure that his envelope was meticulously packed with everything that it needed for the college to accept it.

It feels like Atlas has lifted the world from his shoulders when he leaves the building, keys jingling in his hand as he bounces slightly toward his precious Jeep. Pure force of will keeps him from breaking down.

Nobody ever said that goodbye would be easy.

Stiles picks up cardboard boxes on his way home, and immediately carries them up to his room, hiding them in the closet behind… well, everything.

Then he pulls down his curtains, jams his window closed, and sits on his bed. The lack of noise sort of wears at him, and he realizes that this silence will become his life here shortly.

The thought burns him, and the witch decides then to take a course of action. He’s got somewhere near fourty pounds of mountain ash, and now would be the perfect time to use it.

Finding a pocket knife he never used and some wood glue, Stiles dug out the seam of the window, making a line of the ash in the crevice with precision that Deaton would be jealous of. Replacing the pieces of wood he’d taken out, he repeats the process with the door into his bedroom, making sure to make it look as if he hadn’t just cut up the floor, because his father would probably kill him before he even got to fly to Quebec. Once he feels secure enough, he sets to work casting a circle.

He visualizes the Hale house in his mind’s eye, the pack lounging in the grass outside it. It doesn’t look like the hollow shell here, the improvements that the pack has made to it pulling him in like a Siren’s Call. It looks like home. It  _feels_  like home.

He eyes the pack. Derek and Peter standing over everyone, watching in pride at how they’ve grown so close. Erica and Lydia braiding chains of marigolds. Isaac and Scott roll elderberries between their fingertips, Jackson flicking the berries he had at them in good fun. Something glints on Boyd’s wrist as Lydia lifts it to tie a marigold chain around it. Quartz, Stiles realizes. Perfect. He focuses on them, on giving them strength to do what they think is right once he’s gone, and the power to protect each other, too.  He imagines a bright light surrounding them with its warmth, keeping them safe from everything on the outside.

He just wants them to be safe. He doesn’t want them to hurt when he leaves.

There’s something in each of his hands. A zippo lighter in one, and one of those fire-starters that they used to make in Scouts in the other. He climbs the steps, pushing the door open. This place is home, he tells himself. But it’s not. Not anymore. He has no home, he is not pack.

He’s severing his ties, like an infected, unsalvageable limb, to save them and to save himself.

He lights the fire-starter and steps back as it catches, going back to the outside. The pack makes no notice of his action, strong, happy.  Together and whole, away from Stiles and the symbolic burning of everything he called home.

Stiles emerges from the trance, shaking. It’s starting to get dark outside, and all Stiles can smell is fire and ash. It burns his lungs, like he’s just escaped from a burning house, but he’s still in his room, unharmed and cross-legged in his circle. The lingering tingle of energy rests at the back of his throat, mingling with an awful taste of ash. He balanced his actions, or at least he felt he had. He could deal with karma when and if it came for him, but it was something he’d needed to do. He hadn’t harmed anyone. Just himself.

He breaks the sacred safety of his circle and leaves his room, hurrying outside into the night air.

The night smells clear of the smoke that clings to his skin, and he feels the stinging emptiness that he’d expected. The boy almost swears that he hears a howl in the distance, echoed by more and more, but they’re happy.

Nah, he’s just hearing things. Shaking off the thought and the emptiness, Stiles heads back inside with a smile planted on his face, willing himself to be calm and happy.

As happy as Stiles could be, because he hadn’t been happy in a long time.

He cooks dinner for his father, and yammers to himself aloud about how he’s got to pack and figure out where he’s going to store his things, financial aid, and wondering how hard it’ll be for him to pick up on some basic Quebecois, trying to ignore the feeling that something is going to happen.

He spends the entire meal talking cheerfully to his dad about going to Montreal, and how he’ll call home every night and update his dad on how he’s doing. He doesn’t mention the panic attack that he’d had, or getting sick, or what actually happened to his phone.

He just likes seeing the look of relief on his father’s face when Stiles says, “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just college. I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

He wills himself to believe it.

The next week is spent packing boxes and moving them into the Stilinski’s storage unit with his mother’s things. Scott and Isaac stop by on Wednesday, to ask what happened, why isn’t he answering their calls, why is he leaving.

“College,” the witch answers with a nonchalant shrug, hefting a box into the Jeep. “I got into Concordia. Going to Canada.”

The blonde werewolf smiles at Stiles, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good job, man! You… you’re gonna keep in contact though, right?”

He tries to ignore the hurt in Isaac’s voice and shrugs again. “I mean, I’ll try. But it’s college, dude. I can’t make any promises. And my dad said he wasn’t gonna get me a new phone, so I can’t say.”

His heart doesn’t skip a beat, because it’s true. His dad had said that he wouldn’t be getting Stiles a new phone.

Scott nods solemnly. “Well, do you need the help moving boxes, at least? We probably won’t be seeing you for a while after this, it’s the least we can do, right?”

Stiles remembers the mountain ash at the last second and shakes his head, planting a smile on his face quickly. “No, I’ve got it. I leave in two weeks, and my dad’s barbecuing before I go, so if you guys wanna come over, the invitation is there. For all of you,” he specifies.

The pair nods, letting him know that they’ll consider it.

The Tuesday night of the barbecue rolls around and the whole pack turns out.

Except for Derek.

Stiles pretends that he doesn’t feel like he’s been stabbed, because even Peter turned out.

They get a game of football going in the backyard, Lydia and Erica keeping score and refereeing as opposed to playing with the boys. His dad grills and Stiles slips into the house to get a tray for him to put the finished meat on, not shocked when Peter follows him.

“What have you done, Stiles?” he asks. He doesn’t sound hurt, or angry. Just concerned. “The rest of the pack may not know it yet, but I felt it as soon as it happened. I could almost taste the smoke. What did you do?”

Stiles freezes, turning to face Peter. He can’t look the male in the eye, keeping his head down as he bares his throat in request for forgiveness.

It’s ingrained in him as the human Omega in the pack, and Peter meets it by pulling the boy into a tight hug, burying his face in Stiles’ exposed neck.

“You have to understand,” he mutters to Peter, resisting the urge to give in to his sudden need to cry again.  Peter smells like home. Like the trees around the Hale property, like paint, and wood shavings from the house itself. “I had to do it. I’m not pack anymore. He doesn’t want me, Peter. I did what I had to.”

The older Hale steps back, clearing his throat. Neither speaks, unsure of where to go.

“I’m going to give you something,” Stiles says in an even voice, his words quiet. “Before you and the pack leave tonight. I’m going to give you a box. You’re not allowed to open it until tomorrow evening. Hide the unwrapped charms in discreet places around the house, and give each pack member the envelope with their name on it.”

“Stiles-“

Stiles shakes his head. “He told me not to come back, Peter. I can’t go to the property to do it myself, I need your help with this. Please.”

After a long moment, the ex-alpha nods. “Okay. We should get back to the party for now.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, picking up the pan his father asked him to bring out. He immerses himself in the pack’s laughter and togetherness, almost absently hovering along the outside.

After the mob of teen wolves is fed, Peter helps Stiles clean, and Stiles slips him the box.

The smiling faces and teary goodbyes almost break him, but he’s not saying goodbye, because goodbye means forever, and forever means inevitably forgetting.

Stiles doesn’t get to sleep that night, which is okay, because he and his dad have an early morning, driving to LAX so Stiles can get on his plane. He carries his packed bags downstairs, starting the coffee pot for his father.

He meticulously takes his medication and sits in the kitchen for another hour before running upstairs and tapping on his dad’s door.

“4 AM wake-up call, Sherriff,” he calls through the door, giving it another knock or three before making as much noise as he possibly could on his way back down the stairs. He hefts his bags down the porch stairs, heading to his Jeep.

Out of the corner of his eye, he swears to high heaven that he sees glowing red eyes. When he turns, they’re gone.

“You’re seeing things, Stiles,” he mutters to himself, tossing his luggage inside his beloved, closing it up and heading inside again. He’s not expecting his dad to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, but he’s awake.

While his dad makes himself a cup of coffee, Stiles sets to making them a quick breakfast. He focuses on the task before him instead of thoughts of red, red eyes. He’d just thought he’d seen them, projecting a fruitless desire.

Thoughts of Derek are gone as the Stilinski men load themselves into the car and pull out of the driveway. The Alpha wouldn’t have come, Stiles tells himself. Not for an ostracized human Omega.

No, not Omega. Not even worthy of Omega.

Just human, with a little extra oomph.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, congratulations.  
> This fic and the plotline that will be following were inspired by the song Engine Driver by the Decemberists.  
> I apologize in advance, because this is going to be a bumpy ride.


End file.
